(no subject)

The bed is made. (It hasn't been slept in.)

The ashtray on the end table is clean and free of the detritus of a lifelong habit. (Too preoccupied.)

The curtains are drawn back, letting bright, beautiful light in. (Roland doesn't notice.)

He's still sitting in the same position he was when he came in and sank to the floor. (Back against the door, hugging his knees, face buried in his arms.)

Now he looks up. Vertebrae crackle. (Gunfire.)

He stands. Goes to the bathroom. Splashes water on his face. (Icy cold, like a stream in Gilead in winter.)

Roland considers a moment, then strips and gets in the shower. (Something to do.)

Showers are good places for thinking. (I let him drop. Gods help me, I let him drop.)

When he gets out, steam has clouded the mirror. He ignores it and puts his clothes back on. (The shirt Rosalita made for him.)

Time for breakfast. (That means seeing people.)

His hand hesitates as he reaches for the doorknob. (Can you face him? Can you face anyone?)

Jake's composed, blank face. (He has forgotten the face of his father.)

And Roland turns, face crumpling, and sinks to the floor. (Right back where he started.)

Ka is a wheel. (Say sorry.)